Every garden has its shades. The floor of the
human heart, filled as it is with the flowers of love and hope and dreams, is
spotted with such places of darkness, of decay, of silence that naught but death
can live there. No wind stirs the air of those shadows, and the heart grows foul
as poisoned soil. What we plant there turns to ruin; where that shadow spreads,
grows only hate, despair, and death. The heart's garden is torn, and
tearing.
I do not know how to tend my heart. I am at odds with its
abundance; I have confined myself now to a single glade. All around me, the
crooked arms of knotted trees loom atop piles of rot. A wall of brambles locks
me in - I could hack at my borders from sunrise til the darkening of the moon,
and the next day there would be thorns where once there were only weeds. I am
trapped within this place I love.
There is within the inner heart a fire
that could burn all filth away, but I do not know how to tame it, once
unleashed. How hot the blaze would grow upon the miles of wild growth - it would
consume all, I am sure. What little I have would be lost; I would sooner be a
prisoner to small beauty than lord over fields of desolation and ash.
But
o, my back is weary from the burden of my days; it takes great effort simply to
care for what I've grown. Were I to increase my lot, I'd surely lose what once
was so secure.
I am overstretched.
I am a canvas far too wide for
the gallery wall, yet my portions are meaningless. I must be taken whole, or not
at all - yet where to go? I would dwindle, but how? All these parts, so precious
and a part of me, I cannot discern the worth of any. Shall I remove the left
hand, or the right? Shave skin from my chest, or from the back? It cannot be so;
there must be a way.
The gardener peers through a
single facet; another dimension, a slight turn of the inner eye, and love could
multiply. The mind unravels like so much twine - let it go! let it
go!
O, the wind is blowing, but I do not speak its
language.
Be still, the heart is listening for its
answer.
-----Original Message-----
From:
[EMAIL PROTECTED] [mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]]On
Behalf Of [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Sent: Sunday, June 29, 2003 2:14
PM
To: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Subject: [X] A Word About Popped
Corn.
What happens is:
when it gets hot,
it
suddenly
turns inside
out!
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- [X] A Word About Popped Corn. tas02
- Jeremy Gregg
